Punchline
by Pearl Gatsby
Summary: He's careful to keep a tease in his voice, to act as if he doesn't really care. It's how they play the game. :: Rated M for language. Dramione, EWE, OS.


**Rated M for language.**

 **I'll tell you now, this was rushed and just an idea I wanted to fire off—apologies if it's messy/not as well-built as some of my other stories. I don't own** _ **Harry Potter**_ **, etc.**

 **.**

"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy…" Hermione threatens, glaring as she gets up from her desk to search her bookshelf.

Draco just laughs, leaning back in the chair in front of her desk. "You swear what? You'll hex my bollocks off? That's been your favorite lately."

"Malfoy," she warns, her voice going an octave higher.

Draco grins briefly while her back is turned. _This_ is the Hermione he's missed. In the years they've spent working together at the Ministry after the war—both in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—they've developed a rapport, a routine of banter; but of late, Draco's noticed it gradually slipping away.

At first, it was hard being made to work so closely together. Draco was hired on the condition that someone infinitely trustworthy supervise him, and so he'd become Hermione's subordinate. Well— _Granger_ , back then. Though he still calls her "Granger" to her face, it's been some time since he thought of her as anything but "Hermione."

"It's in here, I know it is," Hermione mutters as she pages through a book, wanting to prove her point. Draco's eyes trace up and down her figure—she wears smart suits to work, or otherwise utilitarian pants-and-blouse ensembles. Her hair, once bushy and wild, has calmed considerably and is, most days, rather tame—she's finally found the right combination of muggle and wizarding products. The years have been kind to her: it's been just over four years since Draco began working for her, three since he was allowed to move up as something like her equal, two since she seemed to start counting him as a friend. Still, they have the same arguments again and again.

They argue about how to read the letter of the law. They argue about where to buy the best coffee. They argue about whether it's possible to eat too much chocolate (Hermione: yes, as her parents used to work on Muggle teeth; Draco: no, never), whether a love of sport is a requirement for a well-rounded education (Draco honestly feels that it's not so necessary, but he loves to get her ranting about Quidditch, if only because she tends to get the rules wrong and he gets to correct her), which volumes of Muggle literature should be required reading for wizarding Britain (Draco believes very firmly in _Pride and Prejudice_ but Hermione somehow always argues for the Brontes), which of the latest policies of MACUSA are the most outrageous (though this is often the closest they come to agreeing). Name a topic and Draco and Hermione have probably argued about it, though sometimes Draco argues just for the hell of it—just to see her pretty little pout, just to watch her temper flare, her eyes going bright with rage as she focuses in on him (if only she always gave him that much attention). If there's one thing Draco has learned, it's that an angry Hermione is a passionate Hermione, and he'll take any chance he can get to see her like that.

"It isn't, because you made it up. I _know_ when you're bluffing, Granger," Draco drawls, certain of no such thing. His hope is that he'll rile her up further, make her forget about this new awkwardness that's come between them. Lately she gives up too easily, stops the argument too early.

"If I don't hex you six ways to Sunday…" she glares at him over her shoulder, turning back to the book. Hermione loves to _win_ ; Draco loves to watch her try.

He'll take it to his grave that he's truly fallen for her; that seems no less than certain. Though Hermione had broken up with Weasley long ago—during her final year at Hogwarts, the year that she alone out of the Golden Trio decided to finish—she's made it clear that she's not on the market. And so he jokes with her. It's pathetic, really, what he does—putting it out in the open, ridiculous, dreamy visions of a future he knows he'll never have. He thinks of it as her payback, maybe, for all the times and ways he put her down. He _deserves_ to have her take it as a joke. He deserves every bit of it.

It had started with a stupid argument, something minor, not half a year into their working together: in spite of Draco's apologies, his acquittal by the Wizengamot, and a number of other things, their relationship had started off strained, to say the least. Hermione had refused even the simplest of Draco's suggestions on their cases. No input was too minor to be ignored. Finally Draco had lost his temper: "Merlin, Granger, are you going to let me do _anything_? It's a temporary fix. It can be undone. It's not as if I'm proposing bloody _marriage_!"

Hermione had backed down, had forgiven him more than he deserved since then. It was the argument that had turned the tide, morphing them from enemies into colleagues. From then on, their imaginary future became Draco's go-to jest. Over time, the joke grew to increasingly preposterous and detailed proportions—not just marriage but a honeymoon in Italy, summer holidays to France, the number of children/cats/other pets fluctuating depending on the magnitude of the argument.

Lately, their arguments end before they get interesting—but not today. "Hex me—and what will come of that?" Draco asks airily, hesitating just the slightest bit before landing his usual zinger. "How then will I father our four children and maintain the lifestyle you've grown accustomed to? The Malfoy vaults aren't what they used to be, Granger. Tread lightly." He's careful to keep a tease in his voice, to act as if he doesn't really care. It's how they play the game.

Hermione stills. Where one moment she was flipping frantically at the pages of a book, her face in profile, she turns abruptly back to the bookshelf, closing the volume.

"Giving up so soon?" Draco asks, keeping his tone measured.

Hermione responds, but he can't quite hear.

"What was that?" Draco cups a hand to his ear, anticipating she'll turn and see the insolent gesture; but instead she remains with her back to him, quickly shelving the book.

"I don't have time for this," she seems to be saying, her voice strangely thick.

"What?" Draco repeats, disappointed. She's giving up again instead of arguing back—what's wrong with her?

Hermione turns around and goes to her desk, quickly ducking her head to read through some paperwork. "I have to finish something," she says vaguely, her voice still coming out oddly. "Close the door on your way out."

Frustrated, Draco stubbornly refuses to leave. Hermione emits the tiniest sniffle, shifts her head ever-so-slightly; she's crying.

 _Shit_.

"H—" Draco catches himself: "Granger," he reaches forward, pushing gently at her arm with his hand.

"I _said_ get out!" Hermione snaps, looking up, the tears on her face reflecting the light.

"What—" Draco waves his hand vaguely in the direction of her face—"what is _this_?" It's his _real_ temper flaring this time, not their game of pretend. He doesn't know what's gotten into Granger but deep down inside of himself he's— _scared_. If there's something wrong with her, he wants to help. And if there's something wrong with _them_ —if she's quitting, if she's changed her mind about being civil to him—well, _Merlin_. He's not prepared for that just yet.

He's always supposed he'd lose her, that she was never his to keep; but in their many heated arguments, their trips out of the building to buy real coffee, their occasional after-work butterbeer he'd not begun the process of letting go. Hell, he'd practically convinced himself of the opposite—that maybe one day she'd forgive him enough to use him, to turn to him at least for something meaningless and physical. But this non-argument is just one in a series of many, a series in which Draco's watching her push him further and further away.

"'This'?!" Hermione snaps back, some fresh tears falling from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. "Just chalk it up to my monthly. Now get out."

"No," Draco responds immediately, grabbing for her wrist. "No, Granger, something is going on and _has been_ going on and you're going to fucking _tell me what it is_."

Hermione snatches her wrist back, and Draco's heart drops into his stomach as she pushes back her chair and marches to the door, which she flings open and holds for him.

Stubbornly, Draco remains in the chair, searching her face for some kind of answer. It can't be about Weasley—he's been married, a year now. Were there signs she might have been dating someone else? No, he thinks, she's been keeping the same schedule as ever, maybe even working extra. Is something new wrong with her parents? No, he would've gotten a memo from Potter, some kind of heads-up.

Hermione breaks their gaze, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand. "Merlin," she mumbles to herself. When she looks at him again her jaw is set, her eyes still shining. "You think it's all some joke, don't you? Who are _you_ to joke?"

Draco bites back any number of answers—all of them dark, all of them all too aware of what she means, finally settling on one. He laughs bitterly, levelling his stare at her: "Don't you know? I'm the punchline."

Because of course that's the only way this could go. Draco Malfoy doesn't get a happy ending. Standing abruptly, he stalks out the door, listening as Hermione slams it behind him.

The hallway is quiet. It's late in the day, and most of the Ministry employees have headed home early. Draco wants to reach out and punch something but he stops himself, taking deep breaths, counting to ten slowly in his head so as to dispel the anger. And it's then that he hears it: Hermione's full-on sobs, just on the other side of the door.

Draco Malfoy is a coward. With the damned tattoo on his arm, he's a marked man, a traitor, the scum of the earth. And so it takes every bit of his will to open the door to Hermione's office again, prepared to put the final nail in the coffin of their friendship.

"Don't come back in h-here," Hermione stands where he left her, swiping still at her eyes and glaring when he closes the door behind him. "I c-can't today. I can't handle… you and your… punchline."

Draco just watches her, waiting. Hermione summons a handkerchief, tries to wipe at her face but continues to cry. Draco doesn't budge, and neither does she. They stand paces apart, glaring without real malice, in utter frustration, until Hermione speaks again.

"It's not funny anymore," she says finally. "It was funny once, early on, but now I just keep getting older, and…" Hermione shrugs, rolling her eyes at herself and dropping her gaze to the floor. "I don't want to keep joking."

Draco Malfoy is a coward. With this damned woman in front of him he also realizes he's probably the most selfish man alive, to think he could have _this_ , have _her_. But it's with incredulous hope, with the last bit of courage he thinks he'll ever have that he closes the gap between them, tilting her chin up with his fingers. "Hermione, believe me," he breathes, his eyes searching her face, "I'm not joking."

Suddenly she kisses him, her hands tugging at his shoulders for him to bend toward her for better access and his hands are on the small of her back, dipping down to her waist, trailing up into her soft curls. Her kiss starts out gentle but turns hungry to match the urgency of the way he grabs for her, the way he tries to drink her in.

When Hermione pulls back just far enough to take a breath, Draco stares hard at her, at the sudden light in her eyes, the radiant expression of hope on her face.

"How long?" Hermione asks.

"Damn near three years," Draco laughs the tiniest bit.

Hermione's soft response is reverent: " _Merlin_." She leans up and kisses him again, then pulls back—"Wait, so all of that—summers in France? Honeymoon in Italy? Was all of that…?"

Draco shrugs. "We have a chateau. I must say I've lied about the bank accounts—they're as robust as ever. Italy—eh, that's negotiable."

"Four kids?"

"Now, Hermione," he raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't we _date_ first, before all these questions?"

She laughs. "I thought you'd _never fucking ask_."


End file.
